He leans forward, his chest meeting mine. Heat radiates off of him, and despite his menacing reputation, I’m struck that, to me, everything about him is comforting. His physical warmth, his touch, his desire.
We’re oil and water; we’re not supposed to mix, yet here we are. His hands are wild as they dig through my hair. I can still feel them trembling, even as they hold me in place.
I feel that craze inside him. My heart beats in time with it.
I reach for his pants, tugging at them.
He catches my wrist. “Ana—”
He’s still worried about my wound.
My eyes find his. “It’s just a little cut, Famine. It will be fine,” I whisper. “I want this. If you want it too, then let me unbutton your damn pants. Please.”
He stares down at me, debating, debating …
The horseman releases my wrist. I exhale, my heart beginning to pound.
As I begin undoing the horseman’s trousers, Famine’s hands skim down my body. There’s a gentleness to his touch that wasn’t there before, and I can’t decide whether he’s simply worried about my injury, or if it’s something else. Whatever it is, it causes me to pause. I want to savor this. I’ve so rarely gotten to savor intimacy.
Buttons descend the front of my ruined dress, and one by one the horseman undoes them, slowly peeling the garment away from my body.
As soon as he reveals my stomach, his hands go to my scars. He hesitates, then places soft kisses along them.
The Reaper doesn’t ask for my forgiveness again, but nonetheless I feel his apology in the brush of his lips. I feel something else too—something that seems an awful lot like adoration.
This is new, so new. I feel like so much more than my flesh is being exposed and seen. For all the sex I’ve had, I’m a stranger to this. Feeling valued, adored.
I can feel a thick knot of emotion in my throat, and my eyes begin to sting. I cover my eyes with a hand, but to my horror, it doesn’t stop a tear from slipping out. Another one follows it. Then another and another.
What is wrong with you?
Famine pauses. “Ana?” he asks, and I want to laugh at the uncertainty in his voice.
It takes an embarrassing amount of strength, but I drag my hands away from my eyes. I don’t know if he can see my tears in the darkness, but—
Famine’s brow wrinkles as he takes me in. “Are you crying?” I can tell he doesn’t know what to make of me.
“Yes,” I admit.
Famine frowns. “Do you want me to stop?” he says, clearly not understanding why I’m upset.
“God no.”
He stares at me longer. There’s very little softness to this man, and yet, right now, he’s being excruciatingly compassionate.
“I’m not human,” he says. “I don’t understand what you’re thinking. Explain your mind.”
I blow out a breath. “My clients—they never treated me like this.” Not even Martim.
Sex always felt like an exchange. I was a prostitute. I wasn’t getting paid to be adored. I was getting paid to slack someone’s lust.
Famine’s expression changes, becoming empathetic—so, so empathetic. I think, when it comes to pain and vulnerability, he sees me more clearly than anyone else ever has.
That warm, uncomfortable feeling blooms low in my belly. This time, I don’t fight it.
The horseman brushes back my hair, his eyes moving between mine.
“Tonight,” he says softly, “you’re going to forget all the ways you were mistreated. I’m going to make sure of it.”
Chapter 41
He doesn’t lead, but he doesn’t wait for me to lead either. Rather, every touch is met with another touch.
I stare at him in wonder as he removes my boots and the last of my dress before shucking off his own shoes and pants.
How Famine is acting right now goes against everything he’s led me to believe. He shouldn’t be sentimental—there’s no room for sentimentality in that dark heart of his—and yet he’s handling me like I’m precious to him.
Naked, he kneels at my feet. He takes one of my ankles and presses a kiss to it, running his lips over my skin.
Jesus, he’s going to drag this out. It’s probably not the best night to drag this out; the rain didn’t wash away all the mud and blood on my skin …
I reach for him, ready to speed things up.
Famine catches my hands and, twining his fingers between mine, he pins my arms above my head, draping himself over me. I can feel his hard cock pinned between us.
He kisses me softly. “No tricks,” he murmurs against my lips. He pulls away long enough for our eyes to meet.
After a moment, I nod.
At my response, he releases my hands. His mouth returns to kissing my skin, moving down from my lips to my chin to my clavicles, sternum, and breasts.
I close my eyes against his kisses, drinking them in. Each press of his lips is unspeakably tender. This is a side of him that I didn’t know existed—that I hadn’t imagined could exist—and it’s doing strange things to me.
I slide my palms over Famine’s shoulders, marveling at his smooth flesh. This body of his has seen and felt so much pain, and unlike me, he has nothing to show for it. No scars, no disfigurement, just an alarming amount of nightmarish memories.
I twine my legs around his, the pads of my feet skimming over the back of his calves, trying to feel every part of him at once. My heart feels too big for my chest.
He slides his hands over my skin, breaking off his kisses to just look at me. It’s the oddest thing in the world, seeing him marvel at my form like he’s discovering desire for the first time. His gaze moves to my eyes, and at his expression, I still.
I don’t simply exist, he once said, I hunger.
I see his desire now so clearly, but it’s not as simple as most of the lustful looks men have given me in the past. There’s a deeper element to it, and I remember something else he said to me.
Not everything is about sex, flower.
What else is going on behind those green eyes of his? Could it be … could he feel more for me?
I force away the thought before it can sink its claws in.
Famine’s fingers move to my core. The moment they touch, a naughty smile teases his lips.
“And here I thought I’d have to ready you,” he says, running his finger around my entrance.
Clearly he’s underestimating my own desire.
He moves his hand away, and adjusts himself until I feel his cock right at my entrance.
He stares down at me, and God, he’s utterly magnificent; his glyphs illuminate those wicked lips of his and set his eyes aglow. Several strands of his hair hang down, and if I weren’t so caught up in this moment, I might actually tuck them behind his ears.
But it’s not just his beauty that’s captivated me. He’s not wearing the haughty mask he usually does during the day; he hasn’t been ever since he saved me. He looks just as exposed and vulnerable as I feel.
“Flower …”
He tilts his hips as he gazes down at me, and his cock slowly begins to push in.
I suck in a breath at the sensation of being stretched and filled, and—aww, shit—I think I’m about to have another moment.
My throat tightens, and my eyes prick.
Am I seriously going to cry right when my pussy is getting its first real taste of heaven? Is this who I’ve become?
Famine is looking down at me like I’m some sort of miracle he’s stumbled upon and I have to bite back a sob.
Yep, apparently this is who I’ve become.
My hands move to my face again.
Don’t want him to see me like this.
Famine takes my hands and moves them away from my face.
“Don’t hide from me,” he says. “All I want is to see you right now.”
His words are unbearably kind, which is the last thing my sensitive heart needs right now.
A tear slips out.
He frowns a
t the sight of it. “Why are you crying?” There’s a note of alarm in his voice. His hips have stilled, and it’s the worst sort of agony.
I close my eyes for a moment. “It’s nothing.”
“Open your eyes.” The alarm is still in the Reaper’s voice.
Reluctantly, I do. Whatever he sees on my face causes his brows to draw together. “What’s wrong?”
“Everything. Nothing.”
This is unlike any experience I’ve ever had, and already he’s ruined me, completely ruined me, for sex. My career as a prostitute is finished.
“Do you want me to stop?” he asks.
“No.”
He looks unconvinced.
Damnit, I’m going to have to tell him something.
I take a deep breath. “I just … I’ve had so many letdowns in my life, and this … this feels too good to be true. And I feel like you can see everything on my face.” Which is ironic, considering how little light there is in this room.
The Famine I met weeks ago would’ve openly mocked me for this. A part of me is certain he’s going to mock me now.
Only … there’s no judgment in his expression. But his eyes hold a heavy sort of understanding. It makes me think that his own pain runs deep enough to recognize mine.
I see his throat work as he searches my face. “Ana …”
I think he’s about to say something big.
His lips part, but then he shakes his head, and the moment is gone.
Famine leans in and kisses me, and I feel some bittersweet mixture of relief and regret. He isn’t freaked out by my words, but he’s also not about to reassure me that I have nothing to worry about. He’s Famine, he crushes things for fun—humans and their simpering emotions most of all.
The horseman begins to move again, and I focus on that. His cock is still stretching me in the most pleasurable way.
I marvel at him, at this.
His gaze is fixed on me as he thrusts in and out, in and out. The two of us stare at each other with wonder. None of this was supposed to happen.
“I see you,” Famine says. He leans in and kisses one eyelid, then the other. “Only you.”
My breath shudders out of me, and then another stupid, rebellious little tear slips down the side of my face.
Gah, my eyes need to stop this whole crying business.
A moment later, the horseman wipes it away.
I give him a shaky smile, and Famine’s eyes catch on it.
“God have mercy, Ana, I told you no pretty human tricks,” he says, staring at my mouth, his voice hoarse.
Slowly, he resumes his thrusts. Each stroke is deep, yet somehow, he makes the movement seem gentle. It reminds me of the fact that he likes to prolong all sorts of things—hunger, death, and—apparently—sex.
My hands slide down his chest, over his pecs and abdomen. Beneath my touch, his muscles tighten.
Again he pauses.
“Please—if you have any care, woman, you’ll stop that now,” he says, his voice hoarse. “Going to make me come too soon.”
I flash him another smile. In response, his cock twitches inside of me.
My grip tightens on him.
He likes my smiles.
Famine reaches between us, his fingers finding my clit. “I’m going to have to even the score.”
I laugh, but it quickly turns into a moan as he strokes me in two places at once. His pace picks up as he watches me, drinking in my expression.
“I am convinced,” he says.
I can barely focus enough to say, “Convinced of what?”
“The perks of sex.”
I’m hardly paying attention to his words. Sensation builds and builds inside of me as he keeps teasing my clit. My fingernails scrape down his back.
“Famine …”
My lips part, my chest heaving as, all at once, my orgasm crashes through me. I cry out, pulling him in close as wave after wave of pleasure ripple through me.
Famine pistons into me harder and harder as his mossy eyes drink in my reaction. He’s still staring at me when, his thrusts deepen and he sucks in a sharp breath, like something has taken him by surprise. Then, with a groan, he’s coming hard and fast. He looks shocked as he stares down at me—shocked and enamored.
With a few final strokes, Famine extricates himself, rolling off of me. I acutely feel his absence, but only seconds later he pulls me onto him.
Then he begins to laugh. And laugh and laugh and laugh. It shakes his whole body.
I pull away to take him in. My heart squeezes at the sight of Famine smiling, laughing.
I’ve never seen him this way. Carefree. Happy.
All because he got a little pussy.
I smile, tracing his lips with my finger. My heart is doing funny things; it feels both light and heavy.
“This is insanity,” he says against my finger. “I’m having a human experience, and for once, I like it. Shit, I more than like it.” As he speaks, he pulls me in close and kisses the side of my face.
Before I can respond, he rolls us so that I’m pinned beneath him once more.
His gaze searches mine. “This is … I want to be in you again. And I want another smile from you. Many of them. Your smiles make me feel more like my true self.”
My stomach tumbles at that. Like my true self. I understand that statement all too well. It’s been a long time since someone saw me as anything other than Ana the prostitute, but when Famine looks at me, I remember.
I run my fingers over his cheek, and that lighter-than-air feeling passes through me.
Between us, I feel him begin to harden once more. My eyebrows shoot up. I wasn’t expecting an encore any time soon.
“I truly hope you don’t have any plans to sleep tonight,” he says.
I lean up and give him a kiss. “I can postpone them.”
Famine grabs one of my legs, opening me up a bit, and with one strong thrust, he’s sheathed himself inside me once more.
Chapter 42
“Ana.”
I hear the voice as though from far away.
“Christ.” A hand is shaking my shoulder. “Ana!”
I force my eyes open, shaking off sleep.
The horseman is staring down at me, and he looks—
He looks frightened.
I begin to push myself up. “What is it?”
Famine’s eyes are all over my body. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Tell you what?” I glance down at my body, but as I do so, I feel a sharp pain in my neck.
A moment later, I see the blood.
It’s smeared everywhere. On me, on the sheets, and it looks like it’s stained most of my discarded dress. It’s even on the Reaper himself, the blood dried along his torso.
I’ve seen the horseman covered in blood plenty of times, but I’ve never seen him terrified because of it.
He tilts my face to the side.
“Jesus,” he curses again, taking in my wound. “Ana, you told me you were alright last night. I was—” He rubs a hand down his face. “I was inside you last night while you were hurt.”
I feel a flash of guilt. “It’s not—”
“Stop,” Famine says. “It is that bad. Ana, why didn’t you say anything?”
“I feel fine,” I say.
“I couldn’t wake you,” the horseman says. “You’re not fine.”
“I’m awake now,” I say defensively.
Awake and naked and covered in blood and grime. I suddenly feel like a naughty kid, sleeping with the horseman while wounded. Unfortunately, that’s how it worked at the bordello. Getting battered by a client didn’t mean any woman got to take the night off.
“You need a doctor,” he insists.
“A needle and thread will be just fine—well, a needle and thread and some strong liquor.” Not that I’m ready for more liquor. My stomach revolts at the thought.
Famine gives me a skeptical look. “You can’t be serious.”
Unfortunately, I am.
<
br /> By midmorning I’ve washed myself clean and scrubbed out my dress as best I can. I wear the damp outfit in the saddle, my tits basically visible through the wet fabric.
Famine holds me close. I can practically feel him vibrating with anxiety. On the one hand, I’m moved by his reaction. On the other, all that we did last night has been forgotten in the midst of his worry.
We aren’t on the highway for more than fifteen minutes when we come across a small trading post.
The Reaper steers his horse towards it. Before he’s even dismounted, I hear a scuffling noise inside the store, followed by a scream that cuts off sharply.
I suck in a breath. That’s never, ever going to get easier to bear.
Famine hops off the horse.
“Wait here,” he says over his shoulder.
I don’t.
Gingerly, I slide off his steed, biting back a cry when the action tugs at my wound. Not so long ago I struggled to get off this very horse after the Reaper accidently pierced my shoulder with his scythe. The horseman hadn’t fretted over it like he was fretting over this injury. And sure, it was a cleaner wound, and maybe it wasn’t as bad, but still.
Things really are different between us.
Famine sighs when he notices me following. “Ana, you’re hurt.”
“I’m fine,” I say.
“Two words I will never again believe from you.”
I enter the store behind him, wincing a little at the sight of the very obviously dead man who was working behind the counter.
“It’s just a scratch,” I say, moving down one of the aisles.
It’s not just a scratch. I got to look at it in the mirror this morning, and it’s bigger and uglier than I imagined.
Famine guffaws. “Why are you pretending it’s not a big deal?”
“Have you seen my stomach?” I say. “Compared to that, it’s not a big deal.”
“It’s a big deal to me,” the horseman murmurs, his voice so quiet I almost miss it.
I find the first aid section before Famine does. Sitting right there on the top shelf are needles and surgical thread.
“Got it,” I say, grabbing the items. Now I just need to stitch myself up.
This should be fun.
I nibble my lower lip, looking at my wound using a hand mirror I found.
Famine (The Four Horsemen Book 3) Page 32